Wilson
by Sensical Deficit
Summary: Alison Wilson is not herself anymore. She lives alone in London, making frequent visits to one of London's suicide bridges for inspiration. But when a potential jumper is more than he appears, Wilson is pushed into waters from a very different place.
1. The Mediator

Alison Wilson was not a walking contradiction. It was an idea that most people adopted upon seeing her, simply because too many swayed towards seeing the better in a person, but it was entirely untrue. She was as she appeared: an antisocial, misanthropic, horrific excuse for a human being, whom anyone of rationality or there merest intelligence would avoid when going about their daily routine.

Alison Wilson was a short girl, with jet black hair that she had cut herself in an episode of anger and frustration; she found it quite liberating, others found it ugly. She had piercings, despite a severe fear of needles that she had not acknowledged for over a year. Her eyebrows were nearly invisible, even though their natural colour was incredibly dark; bleached, and occasionally waxed, mainly due to the fact that she could not at all be bothered to groom them on a regular basis. She was a girl who had a permanent look of illness, which could have been put down to her unnervingly white pallor, or to any of the previously listed factors, or perhaps each combined.

When Alison Wilson was younger, she smiled. She was a bright child, with a colour to her cheeks and a marvellously expressive face and a penchant for writing and music. She was one to laugh at her own jokes, as well as those of others. She could be unkind, but carried immense feelings of guilt afterwards, and the worst of what she said was usually in good humour. People enjoyed her company, though she never believed so herself. Now, they did not even call her Alison anymore; they felt it an insult to the girl they once knew. No, she was Wilson. Simply Wilson. Although, her immediate family - her parents and her sister, who shared that same surname - still found addressing her as such to be difficult.

And what a terrible person Wilson was. She barely regarded anyone who attempted to speak to her, and when she did choose to verbally communicate her words were dry and nonemotive. She could say the cruelest of things and only stare at the person she said them to, wearing that same blank expression on her face. At seventeen, her parents threatened to throw her out. At eighteen, they did.

And so, for the past few months, Wilson had moved down to London, and was living alone; she made her living by painting so that others could put their name on her creations and take the credit. She did not care, even when the frauds garnered acclaim for "their masterpieces". It was work, and work meant money, and money meant surviving. Because, if she was going to die, she did not want it to be at the hands of starvation or the like. She was going to die at her own hand; she was merely waiting for the correct time.

On New Year's Day, 2012, she received a letter from her grandmother. Wilson's sister was getting married. She was not invited to the wedding, but the girls' grandmother thought she should know. Nonchalant, Wilson tossed the letter aside.

As of late, she had been feeling uninspired, and she doubted her ability to bring in a good amount of money in time for the monthly rent payment without any help. Of course, she was going to help herself; Wilson did not require assistance from anyone else in life - not that they would be offering anyway. No, she would go for a walk, clear her head, and think of something. It could have been terrible, but there would be one desperate fool out in London willing to pay for it. And so, Wilson grabbed her jacket and her hat, then promptly stepped outside into the cold winter.

Her initial plan was to go to the bridge. She liked to stand and watch the water ripple, wondering what lay within its dark depths. A lot of human remains, she assumed. They did not call it a "suicide bridge" for no reason. She noticed that, every single time she stood there, not one person spared her a second glance. It made her wonder if anyone ever spared the jumpers a second glance; if anyone ever tried to stop them.

At that moment, she saw one: a potential jumper. She could tell what he was thinking from the way he peered over the edge - not like her, with a curiosity, but with an edge of anticipation. Surveying the area, she could see that a number of people were passing by. They did not so much as look in the direction of the man. Would Wilson interfere? Her, of all people, profoundly bitter and cold-hearted?

"That's a very stupid thing you're about to do," she told the man, sidling up next to him. Her voice was uncaring, but at least she was doing something. "Cowardly, some would argue." There was a silence, with both of them staring out across the waters, lapping against the base of the bridge.

"Why do you care?"

The man's voice was odd; there was something about it that she could not put her finger on. Still, she watched the water, though her eyes were now fixated on the pair's reflection. She could see her own face, but not the man's. It was strange.

"I don't," she replied. "You can jump if you want. You can cry before you do it if you want. You can scream 'fuck the world' as you're falling if you want. I don't give a shit. Consider me a mediator between you and death. I don't give you my opinion, or any advice at all. I just state the facts. And the fact is that someone out there is going to cry at your funeral. They're going to fucking hate you, but their care is unconditional. They'll mourn. They'll grieve. They'll deal with the mess of emotions that you've left for them to clean up. It could be anyone. A relative. A friend. Someone you didn't even think gave a flying fuck at all. Someone will."

There was another silence that lasted for at least thirteen seconds by Wilson's count, before the man said, "Care." He paused, obviously sensing her confusion even if she expressed none. "You said _care_, not _love_."

"I did."

"Why?"

"You're about to jump off a fucking bridge. Why do _you _care?"

"Because I'm not about to jump off of this bridge, Alison," said the man. "I was never going to. I was testing you. Although, that may not be fair to say, as I knew you would pass. You're going to experience something now, Alison. You may not like it at first, but it's for your own good. For a while, you'll confess nothing. In fact, it could be years before you do. And then, when you do, it will be because you have learnt something very important, and that knowledge will take you home. We will speak again, Alison."

And with that, the man pushed her from the bridge.

* * *

><p>So, I'm back. I'll probably be updating <em>Normies<em> some time in the next couple of days, as well as this new story, though I think I'll be discontinuing the _Criminal Minds_ fiction for now.

Feel free to disregard this information if you want, but I personally imagine Wilson to look similar to Lisbeth Salander in the remake of _The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo_. I ... remain unsure of why I have decided to share that with you, but hey.


	2. The Stranger

Now, I would like to to take a deep breath. Breathe in quickly, as though you have no other choice but to do so. Count, slowly, the seconds that pass by as you hold your breath. Think about breathing, and the need to breathe. Think of what will happen if you do not breathe for a long time. Contemplate how long a person can breathe before passing out, or before their brain shuts down. Do not look it up. Think of what you were told in school, or by friends or family - have they warned you about this before? Do you want to breathe now? How does your head feel? How does your chest feel? With each sentence you read, imagine that every word pertaining to breathing is bolded, capitalised, italicised. Concentrate entirely on breathing. Does it hurt yet? Are you panicking yet? Breathe out, if you have not already.

This time, I would like you to take a calm breath. Picture yourself in a field in the middle of the day; there are flowers and trees of the brightest colours all around you. Everything smells and feels wonderful. Now, imagine yourself spinning. Slowly, effortlessly, simply basking in your surroundings and the utter bliss. You're dancing in your own safe little circle, and you both feel and look beautiful. You have experienced this before. Yes, you have. Remember a loved one picking you up as a child, spinning you around and around and perhaps even making the silliest of noises as they do. Remember other things from your childhood: playing with friends, taking part in a school play, opening Christmas presents from the earliest point in your memory. You are a child, you are innocent and naive. You do not feel concern or anxiety of any sort. But have you forgotten something? _Breathe out_.

Which of these two situations would you find yourself in, with the immediate absence of oxygen that accompanies the harsh contact of a water body's thick surface? Wilson certainly did not find herself in the latter.

There was a pressure in her lungs that was more than uncomfortable, and when she opened her eyes all she could see was hazy blue. She was unsure if it was the disorientation or the sensation that stung her, and caused a dull ache in the front of her head. When her lungs began to scream, she forgot all about the pain and drank the water like a breath of air. Her body rejected the cold liquid, and a fountain of bubbles rose above her form; a cough or a splutter, she neither knew nor cared.

Thrashing her limbs, she was barely moving at all. The water was acting as a restraint, binding her like waste to sink to the river floor. A voice hissed in the back of her mind, _Get yourself out of this one, Wilson_. But she would. She was too stubborn to die in this way. Or at least, too stubborn to accept that she could.

Still, something was whispering in her ear, telling her to ask for help. _It doesn't matter who_, it said. _Just admit that you can't do this on your own_.

Drowning.

_Go on_.

Suffocating.

_Ask_.

Dying.

"_Fine_! Help me!"

Surprise wracked her body as her own voice sounded clear as a bell around the depths of the water. And suddenly, the pressure and pain relieved her, and her lungs were empty.

For a while, she had not idea what had happened. She could let the feeling of weightlessness carry her from the water and onto the river bank. Her entire body felt warm, as though she had just crawled into bed for the night. Only, it was not night time, and she was not indoors; instead, she was laying, soaking wet and with her back to the grassy bank. It was unnatural, yet she could not find the will to complain. Was the feeling relief? Was she relieved to be alive? _Yes, because you weren't ready to go_. And, in this deep contemplation, she did not notice the young man fussing over her stature.

He was tall - something apparent even as he was on his knees - and his face held a certain softness despite its angles. His eyes, though having the appearance of being black, were as gentle and caring as eyes could be. It was the look of a kind man, but Wilson had no time for a kind man.

"Get off of me."

She shoved him aside, sitting upright and running a hand through her wet hair. _You ought to be greatful_, the voice echoed in her head still, and she briefly wondered who it belonged to. But Wilson knew that she ought to be a lot of things that she never would.

"I am sorry," said the man in an accented voice, standing and taking a step back. "Are you hurt?"

"Whatever you want, I assure you that I don't have it," she told him. "Go away."

"I just want to know if you are okay."

She began to wring the bottom of her t-shirt to rid it of water, then watched as it streamed back down the bank and into the river where it belonged. "I'm fucking dandy, now piss off."

The man held up his hands and said, "I did not mean to upset you."

Exhaling, Wilson surveyed the area: trees; a lot of trees; the river; no bridge. However, the underwater struggle had pillaged her energy and thus her care, and so she made no commotion. Instead, she started to stand. She stumbled, and the man reached for her, only for her to elude the contact the moment she sensed it.

"I was only trying to help!" he proclaimed in his own defense.

"I don't need any help!" she snapped, taking a few steps away from him.

"Oh, but that is not how you felt a few minutes ago, is it? I could hear you calling for help from the very far end of the forest!"

Wilson faced him abruptly, saying, "I was under the water, so how could you?"

He stared at her with an expression of stone and replied, "I cannot explain how many things happen in Narnia."

Her jaw ticced at the name, but she said nothing, and after a short silence she began to walk in the opposite direction of the dark-haired young man.

"But you are not from Narnia, are you?" he asked, approaching her once more. "You are from a place called England."

"What makes you so sure?" she questioned over her shoulder.

"I have friends from England," he answered her. "Although, there are not like you."

"Then how can you be sure? If I'm not like them?"

"You could call it a gut instinct."

Once again, she was walking away from him.

"How do you intend to get back?" he called after her.

With an impatient sigh, she stalked back over to him; "The man who pushed me here said that I needed to learn something."

"And what is it that you must learn?"

"I don't fucking know." She folded her arms across her chest and shifted on her feet.

"And this man? What did he look like?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?" she asked coolly. "Who are you, anyway? Sovereign of this unsightly place?"

"Yes," was his response. "I am." He studied her, anticipating a reaction that never came. "And who are you, stranger?"

Wilson had not been in a predicament like this for a while; it had been a long time since anyone had asked for her name. In fact, it had been a long time since anyone had shared a conversation as lengthy as this with her. Most lost their patience, grew angry, and thought her too wicked to make further effort, yet this man was persistent, even with each vulgar word and disparagement she emitted. More than anything, she wanted him to leave her alone, and at that moment it seemed there was only one way to make it happen.

"Wilson."


End file.
